The impact with the Ocean felt less like hitting water and more like slamming into a wall of concrete. The roar of the explosion from the Angel's Auction ship followed Arthur down into the depths, a muffled thump that vibrated through his very bones.
Down in the crushing, silent dark, Arthur fought the urge to gasp. His lungs burned, screaming for oxygen, but he kept his mouth clamped shut. One hand clawed at the surface, while the other remained locked around the sleek black case. It was heavy—unnaturally so—dragging him deeper into the abyss.
I have to let go, his mind hissed. Drop the weight or die.
But as his vision began to tunnel, a strange warmth radiated from the case. It wasn't the warmth of a heater; it felt like a heartbeat. Slow. Ancient. Thrumming against his ribs. The sensation was so grounding that it gave him the strength to kick, his muscles screaming as he broke the surface.
The ship was a funeral pyre on the horizon. Debris rained down—charred silk, splintered wood, and the floating corpses of those who hadn't been fast enough. Arthur swam. He swam until his arms felt like lead, guided by a strange, magnetic pull toward a jagged silhouette on the horizon: an island.
When his fingers finally scraped against wet sand, he collapsed. He dragged his body out of the surf, coughing up brine, his suit ruined, his fingers raw. He had survived.
"Twenty minutes," Arthur wheezed, a bitter laugh escaping his throat. "I said I'd stay for twenty minutes."
"And you stayed just long enough to steal what belongs to us," a melodic, razor-sharp voice drifted over the sound of the waves.
Arthur froze. He forced his head up. Standing on the dunes was a woman who looked like she had been carved from moonlight and malice. She was tall, with platinum blonde hair tied back in a utilitarian ponytail and eyes the color of a winter sky. She wore a tactical vest over a white shirt, and in her hand, she balanced a combat knife with the grace of a professional dancer.
Behind her stood a dozen men—the same "Suicidal Grave Robbers" from the ship, their masks now discarded.
"You," Arthur spat, trying to stand, but a goon's boot slammed into his chest, pinning him to the sand.
"Me," the blonde woman replied, stepping closer. "I am Liora. And you, Mr. Wells, are a very annoying thief."
She knelt beside him, the tip of her knife tracing the line of his jaw. Arthur stared back, his Chinese-American heritage flashing in his defiant gaze.
"I bought it. Fair and square," he grunted.
"In a world of graves and ghosts, 'fair' is a fairy tale," Liora whispered. She signaled to her men. "Search him. And when you find the sword, break his fingers one by one. I want to see if a CEO's screams sound different from a beggar's."
The torture was systematic. They didn't just want the sword; they wanted the "code" to the biometric lock on the case. Arthur felt the snap of his left pinky, then the ring finger. Pain, white-hot and blinding, exploded in his brain.
"Where is the key, Arthur?" Liora asked, her voice almost gentle as she watched him bleed.
Arthur looked at her—this woman who, unknown to him, was the "Heroine" of the very book he would soon inhabit.
He spat blood onto her polished boots.
"In hell," he hissed.
Liora's eyes darkened. She raised her pistol, aiming it directly between his eyes. "Then go there and fetch it."
As she pulled the trigger, the black case shattered from the inside out.